


Toujours Mon Muse

by Grace_less, madmanslash



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Angst, Art, Betaed, Fluff, History, Humor, Immortality, M/M, Other, PTSD, Slash, Temporary Character Death, Violence, future smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 12:52:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2508530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_less/pseuds/Grace_less, https://archiveofourown.org/users/madmanslash/pseuds/madmanslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am William LaBelle. Well, really I'm Guillaume LaBelle, but you Americans have rather a hard time saying that, so let's stick with William. I'm an up and coming artist in New York-- sort of at least. My life well.... isn't like yours at all. Mostly this is due to the fact that mine never ends.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>       A story in which Henry happens to run into someone just like him, except neither of them knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm having this beta-read by my bestest buddy and we're both equally excited, cause there's not nearly enough fanfiction for Forever! Hope you enjoy :)
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Updates will be bi-weekly or weekly(If I'm lucky lol) and will be longer

Fate is a funny kind of thing. I don't mean in the humorous "ha ha" kind of way-- although that's sometimes just the case-- but more in a cruel and ironic kind of way. 

There are two clear sides to the coin of fate, resulting in your fifty-fifty chance of either being screwed over or pleasantly surprised. Say you get heads, well, you're in luck. You'll be the one who has it all going for them. Now, if you're a tails, not so much. You, quite literally, get the ass-end of things. Then there's a gray area. Sorry, I may have lied when I said that thing about fifty-fifty. Of course, there's still the two sides, but what happens when the coin lands on that small, little ridge? Well, you get a mix. You alternate between happy land and shit storm, and probably end up wondering why life likes to constantly fuck with you. Welcome to my life. 

I'm just waiting for the day that something tips over that coin and I get a fucking side. What side? Honestly, after four hundred and sixty nine years, I could give less of a damn.


	2. An Artist's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of the set up for the OMC, but does hold some importance, so bear with me!

It was a sudden and unpleasant realization when I took a glance at the clock and remembered Barbara would be coming.

The rest of the house was for the most part immaculate, but then again, it was only so because I never touched it. However, the room of which I sat in the middle of was quite the opposite. My bed, shoved against the far wall under the only window, which had curtains drawn closed to cut off any offending sunlight, was unmade and strewn with rumpled sheets-- due to my haste in waking from a terrible dream earlier that morning. Some wrappers and crumbs littered the tarp-covered floor, from the times I had actually remembered to eat something. Paint cans, open and dripping down the sides, surrounded my sitting figure as well as a multitude of paint brushes, still wet with paint from previous use. The large canvas that lay in front of me seemed the only thing with some kind of organization and even then, it was still only a beginning mess of colors and strokes. I'm also sure that I didn't look much better than the rest of the room. No doubt that I had paint smears across my face, arms, clothes, and probably even my hair.

If Barbara wasn't supposed to come, I'm sure it would have remained like this for quite a bit longer, but that was not the case. Letting out a small sigh, I decided it best to at least clean up just a bit. Barbara wasn't a stranger to my chaotic sense of disorganization, but that most certainly did not mean she was a fan of it. There had been many a time she had come over to find both me and this room an utter mess, near disastrous, and the rest of the house coated in a blanket of dust since I rarely moved about it much. She had eventually drawn the line-- quite literally, she had swiped a clear line in the dust on my mantle-- and hired a cleaning-crew. Never again did I want such a swarm of strangers in my house, so from then on I made sure to pick up a little before she came. 

After cleaning up crumbs and wrappers as well as placing the lids back onto paint cans, I picked up the many paint brushes and brought them into the shower with me for a rinse. I watched the swirl of colors swim down the drain as warm water poured over me, getting rid of more than a day's grime. Once both I and the brushes had been thoroughly cleaned, I stepped out and dropped them into the sink before wrapping myself in a towel. I dressed in lounging clothes-- sweats and a warm sweater-- after I was dried and walked back into my bedroom. Taking a glance at the bed, I went to sit down on it. Instantly, I was drawn towards the comfort of the silky sheets and down pillows. Laying down, I sighed blissfully as my body slowly relaxed and my eyelids fell slowly shut, as I slipped into sleep.

\----------------------------------------------

It was to the sound of a slammed door and clicking of heels that I woke a short while later. Rubbing the drowsiness from my eyes and stretching languidly, I dimly noted that Barbara must have arrived. After all, she was the only one I knew that I had given the key. Unless someone was breaking in, in which case heels would be a horrible choice of shoes. Sitting up in my bed now, I heard the rustle of what I assumed to be grocery bags, which didn't surprise me as she always brought me food while scolding me for the lack of which I had in my kitchen. Without her, I would most likely starve to death. Not like it wouldn't be the first time, though.

As I stood up and trudged my way out of my room and down the stairs, I could hear the echo of opening and closing cabinets accompanied by grumbling complaints-- most likely displeased with what occupied them, or rather, what didn't. Barbara's grumbles and complaints grew clearer a I reached the bottom of the stairs and strolled into the kitchen. She was most definitely not happy. I was met with the sight of a withering glare and a polished nail pointed directly at me.

"You're dead meat mister! What did I tell you? I tell you to keep your damn fridge stocked and I come over here to find the only food in this house that you have is half a gallon of expired milk, half a jar of pickles, and trail mix?!"

Knowing that she wouldn't stop to hear me even if I said anything, I pulled out a bar stool and sat by the island counter.

"Really, I think you'd starve without me. Where would I be then, without one of my best clients? Honestly, artists, no consideration for anything but their work." 

"And how I thank you for keeping me alive," She didn't miss the mirth in my tone and sent yet another glare my way before whisking herself back around and unpacking groceries. "So, since I know it's what you really want to talk about, how are the galleries going?" Sure, as my agent, Barbara made sure I wasn't dying. However, I knew what she really cared about was my art, as that was what brought in the money. Barbara was a nice woman, but when money is your game, you always end up a little greedy. I, on the other hand, couldn't care less even if the galleries were abandoned and the homeless were taking my paintings. Although, what a homeless man would do with a painting, I haven't the faintest idea.

"The older gallery's works have received several offers on a few of the pieces, which I tried to call you about, but you insisted on ignoring your telephone. I swear, you need to catch up with the times and get a cell so I can leave messages, or even a computer so I can send you e-mails."

"I don't care how much I get for them, as I've told you before. Whatever you deem appropriate is fine." She only huffed in response and continued what she had been doing. By now, she had accepted that this was the only real response I would give to her when it came to the subject of offers. At first she had argued against it, saying I needed to give my opinion on the price, but learned that those requests only earned ludicrous answers such as "half a nickel" or "twenty paper clips and a rubber-band ball". I was honestly just curious if anyone would actually give that as payment.

"Whatever you say Will." I winced at the shortening of my name and frowned.

"Please, you know I dislike that name."

"Oh, my bad, William." I rolled my eyes at the obvious sarcasm. "Anyways, after receiving several rejections, I've managed to find a place that will show your pieces. The scheduled opening is in a week."

"Why so soon?" Usually when I had a new gallery opening, it was at least two weeks before even just setting up in the acquired space.

"Well, that's their terms. Plus, I thought'd be fine since you've already finished all of the pieces for it." That meant I would have to start preparing the space within the next day or two. Depending on if I needed to paint the walls or move things, it would take at least two days to get everything prepared and cleaned. Besides that, there was figuring out how I would be placing my music as well as picking out the records I would be playing. Music was always a key part of my galleries. "You will be coming to this one, no ifs, ands, or buts about it."

"Bu-"

"AH! What did I just say?" Huffing, I slumped over and rested my chin on the counter. There was no arguing with Barbara, she could be as stubborn as a mule, even at the best of times. "Anyways, seeing as you probably haven't eaten a decent meal since the last time I was over, I'm going to cook so you need to scooch out of here and occupy yourself." It wasn't as if I couldn't cook for myself, I was actually rather good at it. However... Let's just say that knives and I weren't the best of friends as of late.

Knowing that I definitely didn't want to be in the kitchen while Barbara was cooking, I complied and shuffled off into the living room. Well, it wasn't necessarily a "living" room, seeing as I barely ever stepped foot into it. The little cloud of dust that poofed up from the sofa when I plopped down onto it was testament enough of just that. It still had furniture, but only because I had had the pieces much too long to even entertain the thought of getting rid of them, that would be much too painful. There were a number of paintings on the walls, but they were far from my most favorite, which were locked away for safe keeping. Yes, someone could live in it, but it most certainly was not lived in.

The sounds of clinking and clanging of pots echoed from the kitchen as Barbara continued her cooking. I didn't have any idea what exactly it was that she was making, but I wasn't too worried about it. She had been my agent for a good four years and was well atoned to my tastes. I surely paid enough for her to be, at least.

'Knock. Knock. Knock.'

I had been about to lay my legs over the arm of the sofa and lay back when I heard the slight rapping at the door. It had made me jump and at first, I hadn't even been sure I had heard it. No one ever knocked on my door, not even Barbara since she had a key. I never ordered anything, I never got trick-or-treaters around Halloween, I never got door-to-door-salesmen, and I never got religious missionaries. I had made it a goal to make my front porch look as foreboding as possible, always leaving off the porch light, drawing the curtains and shutting the outside shutters. No one ever knocked on my door. Yet, here I was sitting having heard such a noise. Half believing I had misheard it, I sat still and leaned forward.

'Knock. Knock. KNOCK.'

Nope, no mistaking it that time. I looked back to the kitchen, seeing the back of Barbara as she stood over the stove and cooked. She most likely hadn't heard it, as she was making so much noise as she carried on. Glancing back at the door, I shuffled a bit before standing abruptly and waltzing towards it. I unlocked the several dead-bolts that lined the door and left the chain connected before letting it crack open the tiniest amount possible.

It was only just enough so that I could see the two people standing on the other side of it, a man and a woman, both dressed warmly yet professionally. The man especially so, with a nice manteau and a charming maroon scarf, but that didn't mean I was any less apprehensive about him standing on my doorstep. They were still strangers, and I did not deal well with strangers.

Before I had any chance to inquire about their purpose, the woman was pushing her way forward and shoving a badge into the view of the crack of the doorway. "I'm Detective Jo Martinez with the NYPD, are you William LaBelle?" Okay, police. I heard they weren't bad nowadays, for the most part at least.

"Yes I am..." Then it occurred to me that she had only said she was a detective, not the man."Is he a detective as well?"

"Well, actually, I'm-,"

"He's an NYPD consultant," The woman cut off the man before he finished, and he frowned at that but remained silent otherwise.

"Well.....I guess that's alright then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will start in a third person's P.O.V., but will switch back to William's P.O.V.
> 
> At some point in the story, Grace_less pointed out that I had written "plots" instead of "pots", so we had a giggle fit that Barbara was plotting in the kitchen with Adam. Yes, we did that lol
> 
> Please comment! I'd love to know what you guys are thinking so far :)

**Author's Note:**

> Message me and tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is always welcome and encouraged, as well as any ideas you have on small details. Also, I'm going to try and follow the advances of the series as much as possible as it progresses.


End file.
